Exacerbation
by Pinkie Tuscadaro
Summary: Ashley and Craig are on tour in Europe and Craig's meds become ineffective, leaving Ashley to deal with his violent and manic behavior.
1. Chapter 1

I played my tingly keyboard and watched him move around the stage with such energy. You could feel the energy coming off of him. He grabbed the microphone and kind of screeched into it, his voice rising with the guitars, and the counterpoint was my keyboard. I watched him, trying not to feel any fear. He was fine. It was a show, and you had to be up and energetic for a show.

Afterward, in the backroom, he guzzled beers. The rest of the band did, too, and I had a glass of red wine. I didn't want to be like a mother hen but I didn't know if Craig should be drinking so much, what with his meds and all. I saw him taking the meds, he took them every night, he took a few in the morning, but they didn't seem to be working. I felt the vibrations of fear, like someone walking on loose boards. It felt like it did in grade 11, the palpable energy and the talking, talking, talking. I sipped my wine, watched the others sip their beers, could see everyone starting to relax. Everyone except Craig. He was as energetic as ever.

In the hotel that we shared I listened as best I could to his stream of ideas, and watched him hop from one seat to the next. He sat at the little table near the window, his legs bouncing up and down, his fingertips tapping the surface of the table. Then he stood up, paced, sat on the edge of the bed, went over to the mirror and fixed his hair, went into the bathroom, still talking, talking. I couldn't hear him through the closed bathroom door and with the water running but it didn't matter. I wasn't following him anyway.

"Craig," I said when he came out of the bathroom and gazed at his reflection again. He kept talking.

"Craig," I said again, getting tired just watching him.

"Craig!"

"What?" He whirled around, just like he did that time in Simpson's study period, and I blinked back tears. Something was so wrong. And we were in Europe, very far from the comforting parental know how of my mom and Joey. We were on our own.

"Have you been taking your meds?" I hated to ask him this because I knew it bugged him, and I'd seen him take them. But I didn't know what else to say or do. He was manic as hell.

"Yeah," he said, sounding wounded, looking at me like a little boy in trouble, "you've seen me,"

"I know, okay, I have seen you. But something's wrong, Craig. You're, you're not acting right,"

"I'm fine, Ashley, okay! Just, just get off my back! I don't know what you want from me! I kicked cocaine, I went to fucking rehab, that hellhole. It was a locked rehab, it was like prison! But I went and I did it and I've been on my meds for months! Every single day I take them exactly when I'm supposed to so why are you bugging me about this!"

He was scary. There was this jagged aura around him, and as I sat on the edge of the bed I watched him pick up a glass and shatter it against the wall. I jumped, and watched him warily. I remembered all too well when he beat up Joey, so out of control and crying and not meaning to. What if he did the same thing with me? After all, I confronted him this time with his behavior like Joey had back then. I backed up on the bed, watching him, hoping he wouldn't turn all this manic rage against me.

He turned toward me and I saw the anger in his eyes, the out of control manic behavior. Behind him I saw the dent in the wall from the glass, the broken glass glittering in the carpet. My eyes were wide with fear, and all these crazy thoughts were going through my head. I thought of Terry and Rick, I thought of Craig with his father, cowering in the basement darkroom as his father came at him. If he chose to come at me what chance did I have? He was bigger and stronger, and he was manic. His meds weren't working. I thought of how violence was such a part of us, always controlled, always just under the surface. There were plenty of times when I'd just wanted to punch someone, to kick them, hurt them. But I didn't because I was in control. Craig wasn't.

He came toward me and shoved me, and I felt myself slam into the wall. I closed my eyes, bracing myself for whatever else he might do, but he didn't do anything. I heard the hotel door slam and when I opened my eyes he was gone.

Shaking, trying not to cry, I dialed Joey's number from memory, not even thinking about what time it was there. Three hours earlier or later, or maybe six hours. All I knew was that it was late here, and getting later.

"Hello?" Joey's cheerful voice after the third ring. He sounded awake enough, it must be a decent hour there.

"Joey, it's Ashley," I said, and even over all the miles of ocean, the sea creatures swimming lazily between us, and without words I could feel his brow start to bend in worry.

"Ashley, how's Craig?"

"Uh, that's why I'm calling. Not good. He's manic, he's acting like he's off his meds but I've seen him take them every time he's supposed to. But Joey, it's just like it was back in grade 11. He's out of control,"

There was a pause while Joey gathered his thoughts, and I listened to the silence and the crackles between us, and I bit my lip and wondered where Craig was.

"Okay. Sometimes the meds, they lose their effectiveness. Maybe he's tolerating that dose, and it isn't helping anymore. He'll need to get the meds adjusted. I'll call his psychiatrist and see what she can do, and maybe she can contact a psychiatrist out there. Don't worry, Ashley. We'll get it taken care of. I'll call you back when I get it all worked out. Is he there? Can I talk to him?"

I took a deep shuddery breath, rubbed my sore arm and shoulder from being slammed into the wall, and felt a tear slip down my cheek.

"He took off. He's gone. I don't know where he is,"

And I couldn't help it, I guess. I started crying for real, right there in a European hotel room at two in the morning, and I could see Joey's concerned and confused expression clear as day in my mind's eye.


	2. Chapter 2

I couldn't sleep. I didn't know where Craig was. My shoulder hurt from being slammed into the wall, and I rubbed it and felt sad. I'd wanted to believe that Craig was different, that despite being bipolar he wouldn't be violent, though why I thought this I couldn't say. I'd seen him be violent so many times. That glass he threw wasn't the first thing I'd seen him destroy. The hotel room back in grade 11, what was it? A thousand dollars worth of damages? Three thousand? I saw him beat up Joey, I saw the contorted angry look on his face.

I was crying, the tears coursing down slowly, little hitching sobs every so often. He could be so gentle sometimes, he could be so kind and tender, like when he was on those stupid meds and they were working and he'd put his arm around me, he'd kiss me softly on the lips. I shook my head, thinking how I guessed he couldn't help it. Out of control. A chemical imbalance in his brain. But did I have to suffer because of this? I shook my head, glancing out the thick paned windows at the lights, the sidewalks and the other hotels outside.

Without even realizing it I slept for a few hours and awoke to the dim light streaming into the room, landing on the bedspread and the rug, and sparkling on the broken glass.

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I felt better after having taking a shower, and my hair was still dripping wet as I sipped my coffee and stared out the window. Did I think I'd see him? But I couldn't stop my vigil at the window. The coffee was stronger than I was used to, but that had been the case throughout Europe. I was always amazed at the little differences here. It was so familiar in a way, yet foreign. I had felt that way in England, too. Right about now, the steam rising from my coffee, my hair wet around my shoulders, soaking the material of my robe, I wished I'd stayed in England.

I heard the latch of the door, heard someone step softly inside. I didn't want to look. I continued to stare out the window, but I could hear him breathing. It was Craig.

I turned around, too tired and wrung out to be scared. I didn't care what he'd do, honestly. He could hit me. It would be fine. But the ragged and jagged energy that had been around him had faded, and he looked sheepish and sorry. His head was down but he was looking at me with those large hazel eyes.

"Ash," he said, and I just looked at him. I didn't know what to say. I was tired of having to save him.

"You're back," I said, and he came and sat at the table with me, nodded his head.

"Ash, I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to hurt you," The tears in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice. It pulled on something in me and of course I forgave him. I'd forgive him anything.

"You seem…calmer," I said, and he did. I knew the little signs of his manic behavior and he wasn't showing them. His legs were still. He wasn't tapping the table top with his fingernails. He wasn't talking a mile a minute.

"I know, I, uh, I took an extra seroquel. You know, a prn," I knew this phrase, this wording, "prn," It was latin, it was a latin abbreviation but what it meant in English was "as needed," He was prescribed all of this medication but some of it was "take as needed," for agitation and mania and anxiety, all these ills. Pop a little pill. But he did seem better, or at least more manageable. I thought I could tell him about calling Joey without him freaking out on me.


End file.
